


The Adventure of Pocket John (formerly Pocket John Drabbles)

by RebeccaOTool



Series: The Pocket Adventures [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pocket John, Shrinking, shrank, shrunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-14 11:26:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 10,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebeccaOTool/pseuds/RebeccaOTool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pocket John reflects on his position in life midst Sherlock's insanity.  Not an AU where Pocket!John has been pocket-sized all his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

If he ever got back to his proper size, John reflected, he was going to find a way to make Sherlock understand the importance of clean pockets. It seemed odd that a man so fastidious in other areas of life would neglect bits of his own clothing. 

It wasn’t like his pockets were filthy or full of holes or anything. They just tended to accumulate massive amounts of…stuff. Case-related stuff, obviously, but other things made it in as well. A crumbled edge of a biscuit. Loose fibers from Sherlock’s scarf. A hair that John suspected may have been plucked from his own head. Odd little crumbs from the life of Sherlock Holmes.

It didn’t matter in the long run. Sherlock would find out whodunit sooner or later and if there was a way to get back to his mediocre, but never more sorely appreciated, five-foot-seven size, Sherlock would see to it that it’d happen. Mycroft had even offered help, trying not to smirk down at the befuddled and bothered doctor. 

That Sherlock had reached out to his brother touched the Doctor. Asking an arch enemy for help over a little thing like your best and only friend turning into a five inch wonder must have been hard for Sherlock. 

The tenderness of the gesture didn’t help to ease his stomach as Sherlock ran down the street, however. He felt like a cork bobbing in the open sea, pocket contents bobbing beside him like ill-fated companions.

He could hear Sherlock’s heart beating fast (a tad too fast for his liking, honesty), but feeling it was throwing him for a loop. He needed to get Sherlock’s attention, but that was difficult even at normal size. 

He thumped his small fists on the thin fabric between himself and Sherlock’s chest. “Sherlock! Slow down, your heart is—Hey!”

The “Hey!” came as long, thin fingers wrapped around him and lifted him from the fabric. Sherlock, panting slightly, hadn’t even slowed.

“What John is so important that I had to stop watching where our suspect went?”

“If you keep this up you’ll be watching telly in the hospital!” He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. “Slow up a bit, please!”

“No time.” Sherlock thrust John back into his pocket and if anything, ran even faster.

John groaned. At least Sherlock listened to him just the same as before. 

After a few minutes, Sherlock jogged to a halt. “He’ll be heading to the betting parlor next. We’ll meet him when he leaves in four hours.”

John poked his head out of the pocket. “Four _hours_?”

“Quite addicted.” Sherlock’s fingers pinched the back of John’s coat and lifted him out.

“I hate when you do that.” John reached up and grabbed onto the fingers. “Sherlock!”

The detective placed his other hand under John’s feet and released his grasp. “If you’re done complaining, I’d like to go back to the flat do some thinking.”

“You need to eat.” John crossed his arms over the jumper Mrs. Hudson had knitted him. It was garish pink, but the softest yarn she’d been able to find. He was grateful to have it. 

“Fine. We’ll get take-away.” Sherlock coked his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “I wonder if you can metabolize Chinese food.” 

”Sounds lovely.” John uncrossed his arms and let a hint of a smile cross his face. Sherlock may not remember the mundane details of astronomy, but at least he remembered to feed his incapacitated friend. “Maybe I’ll do a blog.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock smiled lightly. “That is a sight I have got to see.”

0o0o0o0o0

Just a little thing that popped into my head once I learned Pocket!John was a thing. So fun!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another drabble. More to come if the mood strikes me. Now Sherlock-ier!

The sight of his flatmate didn’t shock Sherlock. In reality, very little shocked him. It intrigued him. Shock was reserved for the very rare situations where he was either outmatched (damn That Woman) or taken completely by surprise (damn Moriarty).

John’s cries and flailing about would have been comical under other circumstances. Well. More comical. Something about John’s shock always gave Sherlock a private chuckle. His face was so expressive, so easy to read. Now he felt almost guilty.   


Almost.  


John, for his part, obviously assumed Sherlock’s amusement was a result of his size, given the indignation on his face. On the contrary; there was nothing amusing about his friend suddenly turning up not half a foot high. He needed John able-bodied to help on cases. This was…inconvenient. 

The question was not so much how this had been done, but who had wanted to slow Sherlock down. And not by that much; if they’d wanted him really slowed up, he would be tiny right now. Assuming John hadn’t blundered in the way of some conspiracy bent around his brilliant mind. It’d happened before (damn Moriarty). Hm. That probably was what had happened. Well, better John than him. He was in a position to solve the situation. Had their fortunes been reversed Sherlock would have been looking down the long end of a stint of six inches tall.

Sherlock watched him for a few more moments. Obviously John had no idea what had done this, the Yard’s thickest beat-cop could have deduced that. Other things clicked neatly in his mind: no clothing, so whatever had done this was organic and not some kind of, for lack of a better example, shrink ray. His voice was higher in pitch, partially due to stress, but mostly due to the smallness of his vocal cords. He’d woken up like this ten minutes ago (the alarm was still blaring, obviously he couldn’t reach it) and had spent the time half in a fugue state assuming he was dreaming. The bedding wasn’t befuddled enough for more than five minutes of tiny panic.

He was also in pain, miniature face etched with winces and furrowed brows. The clock, of course. It would be far too loud for his miniscule ear drums. Sherlock switched the clock’s annoying BLEEP off. John’s screams came to a halt. 

“Better?” He kept his voice as quiet as possible, not wanting a repeat performance.

“Y-yes.” John’s voice came down a few octaves. “Thank you.”

He was snuggled into his pajama shirt, trying to preserve what was left of his dignity. He stared up at Sherlock, completely at a loss for words. Sherlock gazed at him, but nothing new presented itself. 

“What did you do last night that was different than normal?”

“I’m sorry?”

God, he loathed breaking things down. “Whatever you did differently obviously resulted in your present condition. I suspect whatever it was was meant to slow me up and you got in the way. So, what was it?”

“Sherlock, I've just woken up _five inches tall_ \--"

"And unless you tell me what happened you will remain so." Sherlock leaned down, their faces scant inches apart. John was slightly frightened, but not enough to cause undue stress. "Tell me."

"I don't know!" John protested. "I went to the pub down the street, had a pint, and came home. I've never gone to that pub before."

"Nor have I." Sherlock murmured. If someone had wanted him in this situation they'd have drugged his take-away or the milk in the shop he frequented. Which meant they'd followed John and done this at their earliest opportunity. The Doctor had been the target. Interesting.

“Sherlock?” John piped up, breaking Sherlock’s concentration. “What do we do?”

“We get moving.” He’d need to go to the pub and get the surveillance tapes now, before they were taped over. He couldn’t leave John alone, the people who did this may come back for him. He swept the tiny Doctor into one hand and placed him in the pocket of his coat.

“What the hell?!” John’s voice was indignant. 

“Safer than carrying you in the open. Just sit quietly. I’ll have this solved in a trice.”

“But I don’t have any clothes!“

“No one will see you, and I don’t care in the slightest.” Sherlock snatched a handkerchief off John’s dresser and shoved it in his pocket. Gently. “Here.”

“Take me out this instant!”

He left the apartment, deaf to John’s complaints, eyes blazing. The game was afoot.

0o0o0o0o0

Remember, comments and Kudos are love.


	3. Chapter 3

Three days he’d been five inches (five and seven twelfths, Sherlock insisted) high. Sherlock assured him they were nearly at the answer now, they’d tracked down the man behind the woman behind his drugged pint, and he’d have their answers. Sherlock was sure they’d find an antidote, otherwise what would they threaten him with?

John, nestled in Sherlock’s pocket, was trying not to think about it. For the moment he was comfortable and relatively safe. At this point, that was a victory. 

The first day after they’d viewed the pub’s surveillance tape and Sherlock had gone home to ruminate on why a beautiful young woman had drugged him with shrinking serum, he’d been unceremoniously left on his chair in the living room. Sherlock flopped onto the couch to contemplate, back to the Doctor and the world at large. 

“Sherlock!” John cupped his hand around his mouth and shouted across the distance. “Oi!”

“What?” Sherlock didn’t roll over.

“Are you just going to leave me here?”

“Where would you like to be left?” Sherlock sat up, annoyed with the disruption. 

“Nowhere!” John crossed his arms. “I would like to be able to move about the flat under my own power.”’

“Failing that, what would you like me to do? Pretend to worry over you instead of trying to figure out why this happened?” Sherlock snapped. “I assume you want to return to your normal height, John. Am I mistaken?”

John held in a retort. “Fine. Put me on the floor, at least. I don’t want to be trapped up here.”

“Fine.” Sherlock held his hand flat, palm up. 

John stepped on with as much dignity as he could muster while wearing a handkerchief. Sherlock lowered him to the ground. John hopped off a centimeter above the   
floor. Sherlock wanted think instead of talk? Fine. He’d oblige. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone while in this ridiculous state.

He stalked across the floor, towards the kitchenette. No real reason to go there, he just needed to walk. Try and clear his head. Anything to clear his mind of the horrible hours he’d spent cooped up in Sherlock’s pocket, like a forgotten clue. Sherlock had ignored him even more than usual. Not that he’d had much to contribute, other than protests.

He kept his eyes on the floor, not wanting to see the things around him and become awed by their sheer size. Sherlock wanted to pretend things were normal, and so did he. At least they agreed on that.

He was so busy pretending that he was walking down a regular street and not the crevice in the tiled kitchen floor that he didn’t notice Mrs. Hudson step into the apartment to borrow a cup of sugar. Not until her massive, sensible house-shoe nearly crushed him.

He’d cried out. Mrs. Hudson, unfortunately, heard a squeak. Her eyes refused to admit the sight of a tiny man running underfoot, and so decided it must be a mouse. She reached for a nearby broom, ready to swat the apparent rodent flat.

John tripped over his own feet and saw multi-bristled doom hurtling from above.

Before he was smashed, something darted across the room above him and grabbed Mrs. Hudson’s arm in a death-grip. 

“Sherlock, it’s a filthy mouse, I thought you were keeping the kitchen clean—“ Her voice was firm and loud. She’d only been temporarily frightened. After her late husband’s problems, she wasn’t going to lose her head over a mouse.

“No, Mrs. Hudson, it is not.” Sherlock’s voice was flat. He crouched down carefully. “John, are you alright?”

John managed a nod. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

To his surprise, Sherlock gathered him up with both hands and carried him skyward. He leaned against the long thin fingers, grateful to be off the floor.

Mrs. Hudson’s eyes grew into saucers as she realized her mistake. “Oh my goodness! John, I’m so sorry, I never would have—love, what happened to you?”

“Something I will never find out at this rate.” Sherlock said. “Mrs. Hudson now that you know, please find some things his size to wear. I know you have an abundance of great nieces.”

“I—I’ll try.” She wrenched her eyes away. “Oh, you poor dears, of course I will.”

“Thanks much, ‘bye now.” Sherlock ushered her from the flat. 

John, for his part, was trying not to tremble. He’d nearly died. Not unusual in his life either in the Army or with Sherlock, but he’d almost died by a broom-wielding landlady. It was practically funny.

“John?” The flatness in Sherlock’s voice had a note of worry, probably inaudible to anyone normal-sized. “Are you hurt?”

John shook his head. He wrapped his arms around his chest, trying to still his hammering heart.

“Then say something.” There was an odd note that John couldn’t identify in his friend’s voice. “ _Please_.”

“I think I’ll stay off the floor for now.” John heard his voice, faint and high. Something else that was practically funny.

Sherlock wordlessly carried him back to the living room. John said nothing as Sherlock flopped onto the couch and balled up, back to the world, fingers curled protectively around his friend. That was fine by John. Sherlock’s hands made for a surprisingly comfortable resting spot. 

0o0o0o0o0

Turns out I have a few more drabbles in me.


	4. Chapter 4

Of _course_ it was Moriarty. All criminal roads led to Moriarty, sooner or later. It was so obvious Sherlock wanted to slap himself. He’d been too preoccupied with John, that was it.

“So, are you willing to concede to my demands?” Moriarty drawled from across the pool. Why did they have to meet _here_?

“Perhaps if you explain your terms first.” Sherlock made himself sound bored. “It’s not as if I couldn’t find the answers eventually. It’s just _science_ , Moriarty.”

“Sherlock, don’t do _anything_.” John hissed. Sherlock resisted the urge to look at his pocket. He’d only brought John because he didn’t dare leave him alone.

“Nicely played Sherlock, but I’m not as easily fooled as that.” Moriarty grinned and Sherlock hated him just a little more. “You’re practically _lost_ without the good Doctor tagging along, reminding you just how brilliant you are in comparison to the rest of humanity.”

“I hardly need someone else’s validation on that point.” Sherlock drawled, trying to read Moriarty and getting nothing he didn’t already know. 

“Then again, maybe you are telling the truth. Perhaps you _prefer_ him this way.” Moriarty’s smile shifted from gloating to knowing “No more dates when he should be doing casework, no more stepping out for a pint with the few friends he has besides you, no more getting kidnapped whilst running down to the shops. Just your pet Doctor now and evermore. You could walk away right now and keep him forever. _I_ shan’t expose you, heavens no.”

Sherlock didn’t let his body betray him, shocked as he was. How had Moriarty known? Those were thoughts he’d barely admitted to himself. The idea had an idle appeal, but he’d never given serious consideration to keeping John this way. Not if there was a way to undo what had been done.

Not in the sober light of day.

John, for his part, wasn’t saying anything. Had it never occurred to him that Sherlock might have those thoughts? Something like guilt flitted in his brain. No time for sentiment now.

“What do you want Moriarty?” He let the slightest hint of impatience into his voice. “Either give me terms or I’m leaving.”

“Twenty four hours, Sherlock.” Moriarty’s grin dropped away, but he lost none of his joviality. “I get you for twenty four hours to do with as I please, and your pet Doctor gets his antidote.”

“No!” John shouted and jumped up, head and shoulders visible above the lip of the pocket. “You’re mad. Sherlock is not going with you. We’re going home.” 

Sherlock hissed between his teeth. “Yes, thank you John, I was about to say the same thing without you giving away your position.”

“Shame.” Moriarty sniggered. A bright red laser point scrawled across Sherlock’s chest, landed dead-center on the pocket. “Won’t even need two bullets for this one.”

“You’ll kill us both even if I agree to your terms.” Sherlock’s traitorous fingers twitched as he restrained his hand from covering the pocket. It wouldn’t block a bullet.

“In the fullness of time this cannot be changed.” Moriarty shrugged. “But I promise you, you’ll both live for the time being if Sherlock comes with me right now. And that the Doctor will be cured of his little problem. One-time offer gentlemen, it won’t come again.”

“We can’t trust him.” John looked up at him urgently. “Sherlock—“

“I want to see John’s cure before I go anywhere.” Sherlock ignored the protests. Either they’d both die tonight, or he’d submit himself to Moriarty. Uncertain death beat certainty. 

Moriarty shrugged and produced a syringe from the neat three-piece suit of untraceable make. “Suit yourself.”  
“Sherlock, no!” 

Moriarty tossed over the syringe. Sherlock observed it for a bare moment before sticking the needle into his skin and depressing the plunger.

Moriarty observed without surprise. “Very good, detective.”

“Don’t act as if you’re surprised.” Sherlock ignored the burn at the injection site. “This couldn’t possibly do anything to John besides run him through.”

“Right. This is his antidote.” Moriarty produced a miniscule eye-dropper and placed it on the concrete. “Be sure to take it all, Doctor. I’d hate to think with might happen with a half-dose.”

“Balls to your antidote.” John snarled.

Sherlock eyed Moriarty warily and gently placed John on the ground. Or tried to. John was clinging stubbornly to his fingers.  
“Sherlock, you giant idiot, if you turn up dead because of him—“

“I won’t.” Sherlock pried him off, gently. “I’ll see you at 221B.”

He could feel the syringe beginning to take effect. He’d used a smaller artery so it’d kick in slower. Good thing too, or he’d have passed out before removing John, likely crushing him.

Moriarty’s henchmen caught Sherlock before he smashed into the concrete. He favored John with a chilling smile. “Until tomorrow, Doctor.”

“If you hurt him I’ll kill you when I’m back to normal.” John didn’t move closer to the madman.

“He’ll be returned in one piece, Doctor. It’d be no fun if he died just now.” Moriarty chuckled. “Honestly, you _must_ learn to trust people.”

John watched helplessly as they dragged the unconscious detective away. The eyedropper glistened on the concrete, a gallon or so (relative to his scale, of course) of clear fluid within.

0o0o0o0o0

Yeah, so my drabbles are becoming a Real Fic. Damnit Blue Fairy!


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock woke to the muscles in his arms screaming in pain.

He blinked muzzily, effects of the sedative fading. The room, what he could see of it, was vast. Dark grey concrete, no windows, nobody else with him. His stomach was upset from the drugs, no way to tell how long he’d been without food. No stubble on his face, so it’d been less than a day. He was nude, but that didn’t tell him anything new, except how coarse the rope was. Given Moriarty’s dubious promise, he’d probably only been out a few hours. Not enough time to get outside of England, unless a jet was on standby. He was probably in London, and—

Something tugged on his arms, breaking his concentration. He was tied by each wrist, hanging by his arms. The ropes (quite coarse, oddly cheap for Moriarty) were strung tight, holding his arms almost perpendicular to his body. The strain was enormous. 

He kicked his legs. They hadn’t been tied in any way. Odd. Why restrain him thus far and not finish the job?

A low chuckle rumbled behind him and his heart sank.

“You could have just done this in the first place, you know.” His voice was slightly raspy, throat dry. 

“What fun would that have been?” Moriarty, a giant come to life, stepped into his field of vision. Given his height, Sherlock placed himself at six inches tall. “It was almost cute, watching you run around with your Pocket John.”

“All of this was just for fun?” Sherlock tried to relax all his muscles, hang limp and ease the strain. Nothing happened. Much tighter and the rope (twine, probably) would rip his arms out of his miniature socket, if not completely off.

“No, no, of course not. It’s also to slow you down.” Moriarty twisted the twine between his thumb and forefinger, twisting Sherlock’s arm in the process. Sherlock groaned in pain, lips pressed tight. “Oops. Sorry. Don’t know my strength.”

“Just get _on_ with it.” Sherlock growled. 

“Easy, detective. I have almost a whole day left. I don’t want to wear you out.” Moriarty’s grin was much more shark-like at six inches tall. 

Sherlock kicked his legs as if aiming for Moriarty, in reality testing the bonds. No weak spots. He jiggled like one of those tension puppets children played with. “This is how the great Moriarty has fun.”

“One of many ways.” Moriarty agreed cheerfully. He placed his finger on Sherlock’s stomach and nudged him, making him swing on the line. Sherlock twisted and kicked, but couldn’t do anything to stop the man. A chill ran down his spine. 

He was helpless.

“Beginning to see why I favor this tactic?” Moriarty nudged him again, harder this time. “Even if I undo your bonds, you can do _nothing_ to me. You can’t even talk to me if I get much further away. Your little voice doesn’t carry far.”

His traitorous heart quickened. Fear was a chemical reaction. There was little he could do the mask the effects while in this state.

“Oh, now I’ve gone and upset you. Would you like to come down for a bit?” Moriarty feigned saccharine sympathy.

Sherlock turned his head and gave no answer.

“Fine. When you’re ready for a breather, all you have to do is ask.” Moriarty resumed prodding and poking at his captive with those massive fingers until Sherlock thought he would scream. He wasn’t comfortable with touch at the best of times with people he actually trusted. This…

It wasn’t until the massive finger trailed its way up his leg towards his genitals that Sherlock gave in.

“Stop it!” He kicked away from massive finger, landing a solid blow on Moriarty’s flesh, nearly flipping himself upside-down. He was shivering, twine vibrating up and down the line.

The criminal just smiled. “Ready to come down?”

“…Yes.” He made his voice just barely audible.

“Yes _what_?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Yes, _please.”_  
Sherlock shuddered and the twine twanged. “I won’t beg.”

“A single please is hardly begging.” Moriarty replied. “If I wanted you to beg, I’d have it. I just want basic courtesy, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sealed his lips and glared. 

Moriarty sighed. “Fine. We’ll do it your way.”

To Sherlock’s surprise, the twine jerked upwards, carrying him with it, arms stretched above his head. He dangled above the ground ever higher as Moriarty lifted the restraints. He didn’t twist or struggle: it was what his captor wanted. Soon he was looking down at Moriarty’s upturned face.

Then Moriarty let go.

0o0o0o0o0

I need a new title for this story, since it's gone past drabbles.


	6. Chapter 6

John contemplated the eyedropper. Sherlock knew all about poisons and would have been able to tell him if this was likely to be an antidote or Peruvian snake venom, or God knew what.

But Sherlock was with that madman. He was more on his own than usual. Not even a mobile. Not that there was anyone he’d be likely to call. Mycroft, perhaps, if he wanted to spend the rest of his life in a government lab. Lestrade if he wanted Sally Donoven to call him a freak forever as well as go to a lab.

So, take the eyedropper and risk death or wait here for…for what? The school’s janitorial staff to find him, or some early-rising student? Probably spend the rest of his life in a jar, paraded around for curiosity seekers.

John shuddered. Sherlock only made him _feel_ as if he were on display at times. He’d never actually _done_ it.

Truthfully, Sherlock had been somewhat of a comfort during this ordeal. After the first day he’d made sure John was always within arm’s reach, usually tucked away in the inner pocket of his long coats. He’d gotten used to it; Army transport was much less comfortable. Not to mention colder.

He couldn’t say that he _liked_ it, but it was better than being out in the open. At this size the world was overwhelming. The cloth walls of Sherlock’s pocket were something he could deal with.

The pool lapped loudly, interrupting his thoughts…or was it just his size that made every little noise into thunder?  
His thoughts drifted back to Sherlock. Moriarty wouldn’t kill him right away; just when the detective became boring. With men of their intelligence, that gave him less than twenty hours. 

John touched the glassy surface of the vial and felt tiny bumps and scratches invisible to normal-sized people. He didn’t have to be Sherlock to deduce that the drugs he’d injected were more than a knockout. If Sherlock wasn’t shrinking down to his size right now, John would eat his walking stick. 

The thought of Sherlock literally in the hands of that monster made him sick. It was worse than if a random stranger had him; you didn’t have to assume the worst about the average person. 

All the nightmares, all the wild ideas about what someone might do if they found him in this state seemed to pale against the certainty of a giant Moriarty and a tiny, helpless Sherlock.

He had to risk the so-called antidote. If there was the slightest chance it’d return him to normal and he could rescue Sherlock, he had to risk it. 

He physically reached into the dropper and managed to scoop up a sticky ball of fluid. “Thank you surface tension.”  
He sucked at the drop, feeling silly and looking even sillier he was sure. No matter. He drank about a pint. The fluid was tasteless. 

He took his pulse, wishing for a mirror so he could check his pupil dilation. Everything _seemed_ normal. Best wait a bit: if it was poison it wouldn’t take long to affect his little system.

After ten minutes of nothing he resumed his drink. If only he’d start growing, he’d be able to go out to the car waiting outside, get the spare mobile, do _something_.

He looked around. The only thing he could do now was fall into the pool and drown like a bug. ‘Just keep drinking, something will happen sooner or later. It’s probably not poison, Moriarty would make Sherlock watch if I was about to die.’  
Heartened, he finished the drink. All but one tiny droplet, almost invisible to his eyes even at this size. It was too far down in the dropper for his reach. Maybe if he tilted it…

“No.” He said aloud. “If it is an antidote, we’ll need a sample to work with. For Sherlock.”

He sat down and leaned his back on the dropper. Might as well try and deduce where Moriarty had taken his friend while he waited. 

He was going to figure it out. And God help him if Sherlock wasn’t in one piece when he did.

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued...


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock cried out as he hurtled toward the ground, mind flying with calculations about size, velocity, and his chance of survival. Even factoring in his reduced weight, he’d probably break every bone in his body upon impact, driving rib fragments into his heart and lungs, and—

Something solid stopped him half a second after his fall began. He landed without grace, a sprawl and wincing. It knocked all the breath out of his lungs, but his bones were intact. 

“You see detective, it really is much better to do as I ask.” Moriarty lifted his hand scant inches from his face. “Thought I doubt you’ll be doing much of anything for the next few minutes.”

His arms were like lead, still trailing the twine. Sherlock lay on his stomach, unable to move, feeling the beat of Moriarty’s pulse through his whole body. His flesh felt rough and oddly cool on Sherlock’s exposed skin.

This man could kill him at any moment, as easily as squashing a bug underfoot. In fact, that was probably the exact end Moriarty had planned out. Unless something unforeseen happened, he was going to die.

At least John hadn’t been blown apart by a massive bullet. 

Moriarty dropped him a much smaller distance onto a frigid steel tabletop. Sherlock yelped and curled into a ball, feeling slowly flowing back into his arms. After a few seconds of shivering he pushed himself awkwardly into a sitting position. His teeth were chattering. He hoped the sound would be inaudible to his captor.

“Yes, I suppose it would be terribly cold at your size.” Moriarty cocked his head slightly. “Tell me, do you see in even greater detail now? My, your brain must just be overloading with information if that’s the case. Or is everything the same but higher up?”

“M-m-more de-t-t-tail.” Sherlock stuttered. He had to keep Moriarty talking. Anything to keep his hands off.

“Interesting.”

Sherlock wrapped his tingling arms around his legs, trying to preserve his dwindling body heat as well as his dignity. 

“So, what shall we do now?” Moriarty propped his arm on the table, resting his chin in his hand. “A game, I think.”

“What s-sort of game?” Sherlock hated the cold. It made him sound afraid. He was afraid, but he didn’t want to show it.

“How about a classic: twenty questions.”

A wall of flesh knocked Sherlock onto his back, pressing him into the cold steel. He gasped and began to struggle, but the pressure was easily enough to hold him in place. His face was between Moriarty’s fingers.

“Here’s the game, Sherlock. You guess what I’m thinking. For every question you use, I’ll increase the pressure. Right now this is exactly one twentieth of the pressure needed to crush your ribcage. Got it?”

Sherlock nodded. He didn’t want to waste breath talking.

“Good.” Moriarty smiled wide. “Fire away, detective.”

Sherlock thought for a moment. Twenty questions between him and death. It was more than he usually got. “Animal, vegetable, or mineral?”

“Oh Sherlock, really?” Moriarty looked disappointed. “None of the above. Nineteen.”

The pressure increased. Sherlock’s body was pressed firmly between two planes, one cold and soft, the other freezing and rigid. How could his body take twenty times this pressure?

“Is it a crime?” He loathed the touch of Moriarty’s hand on his skin. After this he’d need a long, long wash. He didn’t think he’d get it.

Moriarty’s eyes lit up. “Yes! Much much better.” The pressure increased again. “Keep that up, and you may live. Eighteen.”

“Is it to do with the shrinking serum?” Sherlock wiggled desperately, trying to find some give, so miniscule hollow in Moriarty’s hand that would give him room to breathe. 

“Right again. Stop lobbing easy ones at me, Detective.” His massive eyes narrowed. “Seventeen.”

Sherlock thought, ignoring the pain, the humiliation, the helplessness. What crime would Moriarty commit with shrinking serum at his disposal?

What wouldn’t he do with it? Probably a much smaller list. 

“Tick-tock.” Moriarty bobbed his hand slightly, and Sherlock bit back a scream. “I don’t intend to play this game all day.”

 

“Are you going to sell it to terrorists?” Obvious, but no less likely for that.   
“No.” Moriarty said cheerfully and pressed. “Sixteen.”

It was getting difficult to breathe already. He’d pass out before the end of the questions. “Are you going to use it to kidnap more people?”

“No.” Moriarty pressed and Sherlock let out a whispery cry. “Fifteen.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and thought. It would all go so much smoother if he could banish John’s face from his mind.

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued


	8. Chapter 8

“You’re going to use it for several purposes: selling to persons of power so that they can make unwanted persons vanish, using on people who need to be persuaded to work with you, and threatening government leaders who wouldn’t want the public to panic over the existence of such a solution.” Sherlock gasped, last of his breath crushed out.

Moriarty frowned and his hand lifted away. “I thought you’d last longer, Sherlock. How long have you known?” 

“I always knew.” Sherlock muttered.

“Clever.” 

Not half as clever as Sherlock had wanted to be. He’d only made it to ten questions before giving up the correct answers. He couldn’t have taken any more pressure. Not nearly as long as he’d hoped to draw the game out. His stall tactic had failed.

And Moriarty showed no signs of losing interest in playing.

Moriarty did look a little bored, oddly. “I suppose I’d better feed you if I don’t want you passing out on me.”

“I’ve gone for days without food.” Sherlock curled in on himself again. He was very cold. 

“I know. Shrinking drains the body’s resources.” Moriarty pulled out his mobile and pressed a few buttons. “And I don’t believe you’ve had anything of substance for that last few days.”

Damn him.

A man clothed in a dark suit with dark glasses (married, no children, living in north London [ah, so that’s where he was, probably in the basement of some office building, 4th block most likely], working for Moriarty for five years at least, with no interest in stopping as it let him get out his killer’s urges without murdering his wife) appeared, left a tea tray with sandwiches, tea, and biscuits, and vanished again. 

He was hungry. The teapot was steaming. He repressed another shiver. Instead, he focused on undoing the twine ropes binding his wrists. Moriarty made no move to stop him. That particular torture was over.

“I know you won’t trust anything if I don’t have some first.” Moriarty poured a large cup and mixed in two lumps. “Or after, probably.”

“And I thought _I_ was brilliant at deductions.” Sherlock’s voice was dry despite his watering mouth. He freed himself from the twine. Simple knots, nothing an idiotic child couldn’t handle. He rubbed his raw wrists, wincing.

He almost didn’t spot Moriarty’s hand as the madman plucked him off the ground. Sherlock struggled uselessly for a few seconds, fight or flight instincts momentarily stronger than him in this weakened state. The rough skin of Moriarty’s palm scraped his back. The smell of flowered hand cream wafted in the air around him. He held in a gag.

“Well then. Tea?” 

As Sherlock opened his mouth Moriarty opened his hand. He had a split second to gulp the air before splashing into the teapot. The tea covered his head, his toes barely scraping the bottom. He kicked towards the surface. Fire laced his frozen skin. Was he drowning or burning?

He shrieked in pain as his lips touched the air.

“Oh Sherlock, stop being so _dramatic_. That tea is ten degrees less than the scalding point.” Moriarty sipped his tea. “It just feels worse because you’re cold.”

It took a few seconds of frantic thrashing before Sherlock found some sort of meager buoyancy in the tea. It was at least seven inches deep. His skin was still screaming, but he could tell Moriarty was right. He wasn’t burned, just very _very_ hot.

The inside of the teapot was smooth. Nothing to grasp onto. The lid was above his head, no way to reach it. He tried to brace a foot on the submerged spout hole, but it was too slippery. He’d just have to tread tea until Moriarty let him out. Steam filled his lungs, his breath quick gasps.

It was only five minutes, his internal clock said. It felt like hours. By the time Moriarty fished him out, he could barely move. He let Moriarty lay him in a half-filled teacup, too exhausted to protest.

It wasn’t until Moriarty lifted the cup to his lips and began to drink that Sherlock realized his foe’s new tactic.

“Stop it! Moriarty stop!” He clutched at the lip of the cup and found a miniscule chip. He dug his fingers in, ignoring the pain.   
“Mm?” Moriarty leveled the cup and looked at Sherlock with feigned surprise. 

“You _can’t_ be serious.” Sherlock panted, not relaxing his grip. “You’re not going to eat me, we both know that. This pretense is silly, it’s…it’s…”

His voice dropped away as Moriarty tilted the cup again. 

“What _do_ you know, Sherlock?” He smiled and for a second his teeth seemed blood red. “What do you _really_ know?”

“...No.” Sherlock small voice barely left the cup. “No, you _wouldn’t_.”

“There are just some people you can’t read.” Moriarty licked his massive lips and drank. 

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued...


	9. Chapter 9

The cup was all but drained when Sherlock felt something hot and spongy press against his legs. He’d squeezed his eyes shut moments before. “NO!”

To his surprise, the mass withdrew and the cup righted itself. He risked opening his eyes. 

Moriarty was reading something on his mobile. His eyes narrowed in anger. Something more important than disposing of his arch nemesis had come up. That had to be a short list, but Sherlock was in no state to deduce the answer. Moriarty slid his phone into his pocket and stood up.

“Sorry to cut our tea short, must dash.” He turned the cup over, dumping Sherlock unceremoniously onto the table with a minute thud. “Don’t worry: we’ll do it again soon.”

Sherlock tried to find some quip, some line to throw at him. Nothing came to mind. Moriarty left without looking back. 

Sherlock lay on the table, soaked in tea, naked, trembling. Moriarty wasn’t going to eat him. He’d been having too much fun. He was just torturing him, making him doubt himself. He might have ended up in Moriarty’s mouth, but he would have lived after some screams. That was what Moriarty had really wanted; Sherlock Holmes, begging for his life.

That _had_ to be what he’d wanted.

Saliva coated him from the knees down. He tried to ignore it. There was no way to get rid of it here. He had to get moving, keep himself warm, try and find a way out of this room before he starved to death.

He curled into an S shape, trying to retain what little body heat the table hadn’t sapped away while not touching his legs.  
A din rose outside the room. He didn’t have the wherewithal to try and identify the voice before the door burst open. It was too distorted to his tiny eardrums.

John, normal sized, stood in the doorway, face frantic. There was blood on his coat. He’d fought his way in, but the blood wasn’t his. He’d shot someone. Police sirens floated down from above. Moriarty had fled to avoid the complications.

His gaze fell on the table. “My God, Sherlock!”

“I’m alright.” Sherlock mumbled. 

“The hell you are!” John carefully cupped his hands around the detective and lifted him from the chilly surface. “You’re freezing! And…what’s on your legs?”

Sherlock closed his eyes. The John’s hand was warm, skin smooth and not reeking of lotions. 

“Sherlock, is this _saliva_?” 

“Yes. Don’t wash it off, it belongs to Moriarty.” Sherlock opened his eyes. Heat was slowly coming back into his body. “Take me home. We can preserve the sample for the future.”

“You’re in shock. You need medical attention.” John’s face hardened. “Which, I suppose, I’m the only one you’ll allow to provide anyway, so we should just go back to the flat.”

“Your skills are improving.” Sherlock was suddenly very conscious of his nudity. “Is there any way we can leave without my being paraded about? The media already has that ridiculous picture of me in the hat.”

“Yes, I suppose there is. Hold on a moment.” John transferred Sherlock into one hand and dug around his pockets with the other. He produced and unused glove and ripped two fingers off. “Put these on your legs so the sample won’t be contaminated.”  
Sherlock did so, glad of John’s preparedness. Once he was done John wrapped a small cloth around him. Not a handkerchief, far too thick. 

It was a bit of tea towel.

A few hysterical giggles bubbled out of Sherlock’s mouth as John looked on, concerned. “Sherlock?”

He shook his head. “I’ll explain later.”

John frowned pensively. Carefully, he slid Sherlock into the pocket of his jacket. “Just hold tight. We’ll be home in twenty minutes. Then I’m doing a full exam.”

Sherlock, too tired to protest, just waved a hand sleepily. The thud of John’s heartbeat quickly lulled him into a light doze.  
John raced past the officers, past Lestrade, past the doors of the seemingly abandoned building that housed the chemicals that turned people small. He had bigger things to worry about, all wrapped up in his pocket.

Sherlock had been gone over twelve hours. More than enough time to do irreparable damage.

“Saliva…” John murmured, sick images flashing though his mind, worse than what’d he’d imagined before. He’d kill Moriarty for this.

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued...


	10. Chapter 10

“You’ve got the saliva samples, just let me wash up and have a nap.” Sherlock, still wrapped in the tea towel, was standing on the table back at their flat. His legs had already been sterilized with alcohol. 

He still felt unclean.

“Sherlock, I _have_ to examine you.” John said patiently. 

“I’ve told you everything that happened. I’m not hurt.”

“No, you’re just six inches tall and coming off captivity with your arch nemesis. I’m examining you.”

“I don’t need it!” Sherlock protested as John gently maneuvered him towards the matchbox and napkin he’d set up as an exam table. John placed one finger on Sherlock’s chest and poked him, lightly, propelling him backwards onto the matchbox. “John!”

John remained deaf to the protests squeaking up at him as he did the best he could to examine his tiny friend. Normal tools were out of the question, so he made due with old tricks to get his pulse and blood pressure. Both a little elevated, but nothing dangerous. He gently worked Sherlock’s damaged wrists between his fingers, feeling for breaks, watching his face for signs of pain. Sherlock huffed and whined, but let him do his work.

Everything seemed normal until he touched Sherlock’s leg.

“NO!” Sherlock pushed himself back, nearly off the matchbox. John cupped one hand behind him to stop the fall. To his surprise, Sherlock sprang forward, spinning around as if trying to spot attackers. He was breathing heavily, obviously frightened.

“Easy” John murmured. He’d seen this behavior before in other patients. “Your legs seem fine. Okay?”

Sherlock got himself under control. “I told you that already. Now, will you please bring me some soap and hot water?”

“Of course.” John had a long, shallow bowl and a sliver of soap at the ready: something Sherlock would be able to get into and out of by himself. He didn’t want to do anything to make the detective feel trapped. Not after hearing what Moriarty had done.  
Sherlock shed the tea towel and all but jumped into the water. He scrubbed fiercely. He had to get the feel of—of—of Moriarty off him.

“How long did it take you to grow back to normal size?” He asked as pleasant, soapy foam obscured the water.

“About three hours.” John replied. “Once I was half-way back to size I went to the car and got the spare clothes I stashed a while back. Then I called Lestrade and told him—“

Sherlock looked up at him eyes blazing. “You didn’t tell him I’d been shrunk!”

“No, of course not. I told him I had a lead on Moriarty’s and that you were indisposed.” John replied. “Nobody knows about this besides me and Mrs. Hudson.”

“Mrs. Hudson?”

“I came home normal and seemingly alone. She had it figured out in about a second.” John touched the empty pocket of his coat. “She’s off finding clothes for you. Everything I had will be too small for you.”

Sherlock nodded. “I suppose that _is_ the one thing I’m still too big for.”

They both sat quietly for a few moments as Sherlock rubbed his legs.

“I’ve got a bit of the antidote saved.” John broke the silence and pulled a stoppered vial out of his pocket. 

Sherlock looked up at him startled. His eyes narrowed slightly. “I knew it. You’re an inch shorter than you used to be, and proportionately smaller overall.”

“You did not know it.” John grumbled and placed the vial on the tabletop. “It’s too small a sample for anyone but you to work with, anyway.”

Sherlock, washing up forgotten, jumped out of the tub and leaned over the tube. A speck of liquid glistened within.

“You’re brilliant, John.” His breath fogged the glass slightly. “I’ll…need some help in the lab.”

“Of course. But not tonight.” John held his hand out. “You said it yourself; you need sleep.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but all that got out was a yawn. A smile appeared on John’s face. Sherlock closed his mouth and nodded. He collected the tea towel and wrapped it around himself before stepping into John’s hand.

“At least we have a few things just your size.” John had already collected the pencil box stuffed with fluff he’d been using as a bed and put it on his nightstand. He’d spent the last few nights sleeping it in, confined to Sherlock’s nightstand while the detective slept.

“You won’t get soppy and watch me sleep?” Sherlock prodded the fluff, getting it to his liking. 

“Sherlock, I’ve just had a massive growth spurt, I need sleep too. Besides, I’ve seen you sleep.”

Both men lasted a few seconds before dissolving into laughter. The sheer absurdity of it all…

“Goodnight John.” Sherlock lay down and curled into his customary position, snuggled warmly under his tea towel.

“Goodnight Sherlock.” John switched off the lights and climbed into his bed for what felt like the first time in weeks. He didn’t need to stay awake: the army had trained him to sleep lightly. If Sherlock cried out, he’d be up in a trice. 

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued...


	11. Chapter 11

If Sherlock were a normal man, John would have made assumptions about his nightmares. Dreams of a gigantic Moriarty trying to consume him came chiefly to mind. If John was feeling particularly egotistical, he might even say Sherlock had nightmares about his head being blown off by a massive bullet. Something that would have made him scream.

The tiny whimpers caught John off guard.

The muted cries might not have wakened him, light sleeper or no. But he’d been down there just a few hours ago. He was paying extra attention.

He clicked on the bedside lamp. Sherlock had disappeared under the tea towel. A muted whimper made its way out and John’s heart clenched. He remembered the Baskerville case and how strange it’d been, seeing Sherlock frightened. That was due to drugs, though. This was…

Hmm.

He tugged the towel away. Sherlock was curled into the fetal position, eyes tightly closed, throat jerking from held-in cries. John couldn’t make out if he was crying or not. The tears would have been too small to see in this light.

“Sherlock.” He touched Sherlock’s shoulder with the tip of his forefinger, expecting the man to leap up shouting, screaming perhaps. He didn’t expect Sherlock to curl in on himself and furrow his brow, trying to close his eyes tighter, if possible.

“Sherlock.” He repeated, this time grasping him around the shoulders and gently shaking. “Wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”

When Sherlock again made no response, John scooped him into one hand. His body was freezing despite Sherlock’s heart beating wildly. 

“Drugs.” John muttered, final piece of the puzzle clicking into place. “That _bastard_.” 

He jumped out of bed and raced to the kitchen. He hated to do this, especially after what Moriarty had done. Nothing for it, though. Moriarty had probably planned it this way: slow acting drugs that induced some kind of effect after Sherlock had gone to sleep. He’ probably planned on being there to see.

He turned on the cold water tap and collected a small pool in his free hand. He dripped a few drops onto Sherlock’s face. They were the size of water balloons to the tiny detective.

Sherlock’s eyes sprung open with a gasp. “J-John!”

“Easy. You’ve been drugged.” John let the water dribble into the sink and rubbed the remaining wetness onto his dressing gown. “I couldn’t wake you.”

Sherlock was shivering, practically soaked. “Residual ef-ef-fects. Didn’t assume…”

“I know.” John gently placed his dried hand on top of Sherlock. He needed to be warmed up, quickly. 

Sherlock started at the touch and began to struggle. “No!”

“I’m sorry, but I have to warm you up.” John swallowed. “Sherlock listen to me: you’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Sherlock continued to thrash and cry out as if his life depended on it, inarticulate howls of rage and fear. John was amazed at the strength Sherlock possessed; he looked wispy before his miniaturization. Now it looked as if a stiff breeze might have blown him away. It felt like some wild animal in his hands fighting for freedom.

His temperature was slowly coming back to normal. John held him firmly, whispering a stream of reassurances that he was safe, he was not going to be crushed, that the drugs were wearing off. Sherlock’s movements got weaker, his cries softer. His heart was still hammering like a wounded bird’s, chest rising and falling much too rapidly.

Finally the struggles stopped. The cries were reduced to a tiny keening on the edge of his hearing, fading into nothing. 

John hated himself. But he didn’t let go.

He had to get Sherlock warm, to get his blood flowing and to get the poison Moriarty injected excised. The best tool for that was skin to skin contact. Had Moriarty planned for that as well? That the very thing needed to help Sherlock in case of rescue would be his torture?

“That _bastard_.” John hissed. He must have known. Nothing like this could be chance.

By the time Sherlock’s body temperature was back to normal he’d fallen asleep, heart and lungs falling back into their normal rhythm. John couldn’t bear to wake him up as long as he slept quietly. 

He wrapped the tea towel around his friend and carefully placed him in the pocket of his dressing gown. It’d be warmer than the bed, and if Sherlock awoke it wouldn’t be under anyone’s hand. 

He wouldn’t be falling asleep again anyway. Might as well do some blogging. 

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued...


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock stirred to the sounds of lapboard keys clacking. John. Had he fallen asleep on the couch agai--

Memory slammed into his brain. 

Moriarty. _Moriarty_. He’d been…He’d almost…

He opened his eyes. Thick red wool surrounded him. Ah. The pocket of John’s dressing gown. How fitting.

Fleeting images of the night before cropped up. John, trying to keep him calm and warm while the drugs poisoned his mind. He’d been sure he was back in Moriarty’s clutches, John’s words warped and malevolent in his ears. He’d fought and cried and made a total ass of himself.

His cheeks burned red and he was very glad no one could see him. After the burn faded he grasped the lip of the pocket and peered over the edge.

John was sitting at the computer, blogging about the last case where they’d both been normal size. He hadn’t noticed Sherlock’s movements.

“John.” He called, and felt the Doctor startle, a single tremor shaking the cloth beneath his feet. “I’m hungry.”

“Right. I’ll make some t-toast and coffee.” John stuttered over the word ‘tea’. “How are you feeling?”

“Lucid.” Sherlock said as John got up. It was an interesting point of view, chest-high to John. All sorts of details about the flat he’d never noticed before streamed at him. He’d have to try this from the floor later. If Mrs. Hudson wasn’t about.

“Glad to hear it.” John put some bread in the toaster and started on the coffee. The smells were much stronger than Sherlock was used to. He wrinkled his nose in distaste. No coffee until he was back to proper size. “Mrs. Hudson dropped off some clothes for you.”

“Nothing as garish as that pink jumper I hope.” Sherlock gripped the cloth tightly as John bent over to retrieve some clean plates from the dishwasher. 

“Not at all.” John picked up a miniature white dress shirt and black trousers from the countertop. “Probably be a bit big on you, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Agreed.” Sherlock didn’t flinch as John helped him out of his pocket and onto the countertop. He dressed quickly, trying to ignore the sag in the clothing: they were clearly meant for something a bit taller and fairly wider than his current dimensions. 

John tried not to let anything slip, but Sherlock caught the amusement on his face. “What?”

“You look a bit like a kid playing dress up.” John let himself smile. “I’m sorry, you didn’t laugh at me when our positions were switched.” 

“No, just prod at you a bit.” Sherlock replied. “I don’t care how I look, or if you find it amusing. I just want to get to work on the sample of antidote so we can end this ridiculous farce.”

“Right.” John retrieved the toast and coffee. “So, where do we begin?”

0o0o0o0o0

“That is really distracting.” 

“I’m sorry, it’s just---I can help you, you know.” John’s eyes were welling up with tears of laughter. 

“I’m fine.” Sherlock snarled. He didn’t see what was so funny. He had to use the microscope, and he was sick of standing in John’s hand. Thus he was clinging to the eyepiece, arms over his head, dangling down to look at the sample. It didn’t help that his sleeves were in the way, and the trousers hung past his feet. John hadn’t stopped giggling since he’d clambered up it.

“That can’t be comfortable.” John switched tactics. 

“I am fine.” Sherlock emphasized each word. “I can’t make it any simpler.”

John watched Sherlock twist the lens with one arm, the other looped around the eyepiece. Legs kicking to find some sort of leverage. “Clearly.”

“DAMN IT!” Sherlock dropped to the ground, scowling.

“What?”

“It’s not powerful enough. I need the microscopes in Molly’s lab.” 

“You want to go to Molly’s lab?”

“Need, John, I need to go there. What I want is of no consequence.” Sherlock grumbled. “Oh God, she’s going to squeal and say I’m cute and be a complete prat about this.”

“Don’t squelch her if she does: you need her help.” 

Sherlock scowled but said nothing.

“Sherlock, promise me you won’t be a prat even if she is.” John pinched the back of Sherlock’s shirt collar and lifted him into the air. “I don’t want you to be pocket-sized the rest of your life.”

Sherlock muttered something under his breath that sounded like assent. 

“Good.” John tucked him into the pocket of his shirt. “Just bang on me if it’s too loud or anything, alright?”

Another grumble.

“Great.” 

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued...


	13. Chapter 13

Molly, to Sherlock’s complete surprise, was the total opposite of a prat. Upon John’s reveal of the diminutive detective, Molly’s scientific mind kicked in. Sometimes Sherlock forgot she wasn’t just some girl working in the morgue: she had actual degrees and was good at what she did. 

For an average person.

“And you were both unconscious during the shrinking process?” She was looking at Sherlock as if he was a particularly interesting telly program. Sherlock was tapping his foot impatiently, wanting to get at the microscope.

“Yes, but I was awake when I took the antidote. It took me three hours to get back to normal size.” John added.

“Amazing.” She pinched Sherlock’s arm between her thumb and forefinger, over a protesting yelp from the detective. “Human bodies simply aren’t meant to function at this size. You should be dead.”

“Well, I’m alive, and I need to use the lab to get back to normal.” Sherlock yanked his arm away. 

“Right, of course.” Molly slid the slide into the scope and peered in, over a protesting cry from Sherlock. “Oh, interesting. John, have a look at this.”

Sherlock tried not to get angry as Molly and John oohed and aahed over the sample. They were both Doctors, it made sense they’d commiserate over scientific impossibilities. 

After five minutes his patience was spent. He stalked to the microscope and clambered up it. John and Molly stepped away obligingly. The sides were slippery compared to the model he owned. He made it about halfway before slipping down like a child on a slide. 

John wordlessly offered his hand. Trying his best to look dignified, Sherlock stepped on. It was odd, he didn’t give a whit about dignity at his normal size. Now it was as if he had to prove himself, even to those who knew him. Better take care not to get carried away.

He peered through one of the lenses. “Hmm. We’ll need to do some tests.”

“There’s not much to test.” Molly pointed out. “And you can’t afford to waste it.”

“Yes Molly, thank you for that brilliant observation.” Sherlock snapped.

“We could do a blood test with me. I drank that antidote not long ago, there should be traces of something.” John replied.

“Traces won’t give us answers.” Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to see the solution. Nothing was coming. There just wasn’t enough fluid left. And even with a blood test identifying what few chemicals hadn’t been filtered out of John’s system by now, they’d have no way to get quantities other than trial and error. All of which would take an ungodly amount of time, if they found anything at all—

Oh.

The strength ran out of his legs and Sherlock fell into a sitting position in John’s hand. “Take me home.”

“Why? We can still run some—“

“Give Molly a sample of your blood, she’ll run it.” Sherlock’s voice was flat. “I doubt she’ll find anything useful.”

“Hey—“

“It’s not a knock. I’ve just realized something painfully obvious. I need a smoke.”

“If you can find a cigarette your size, I’ll let you have it.” John shot Molly a worried look. “Molly, could you—“

Molly slid the needle in before John could finish his sentence, and withdrew a few CCs of blood. “I’ll call when I find something.”

Sherlock lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling as John and Molly exchanged social conventions. He’d been so _stupid_. 

This was just was Moriarty wanted: Sherlock chasing phantom leads, trying to get himself back to normal, because John had so that meant it was possible. And while Sherlock frittered away days, weeks, months, Moriarty would be out there, free to do whatever he liked with no interference. When he grew bored with baffling the police he’d drop a few hints, something Sherlock couldn’t ignore, something to momentarily distract him from the cure. And then, if he got too close to stopping Moriarty, something would turn up and he’d get an inch closer to the antidote. 

Moriarty was stringing him along with the illusion of control. John’s shrinking had been no mere entertainment; it was a carefully planned opening gambit. 

The antidote would be impossible to divine without Moriarty’s knowledge. 

“Sherlock, what the hell happened in there?” John demanded as they left the building. His fingers were curled protectively around Sherlock’s body, shielding him from prying eyes.

“He’s won John. I won’t find the cure.”

“Don’t be pessimistic, you—“

“It’s not pessimism! This is his game John, keeping me busy with finding the antidote while he does whatever he likes!” Sherlock roared. “It’s about control, and I have none. He’s turned me into his damn pet, he’ll be throwing me leads like sticks in the park to a dog, he’s—“

“Stop.” John’s voice was like a lead weight and Sherlock actually stopped. “I see what you’re saying. And you’re probably right. The way his mind works, it’s damn likely. So think about this: you’ve already figured it out.”

“What?”

“You’ve figured out that he expects you to waste all your time on the antidote. Because no human being in their right mind would do anything else when they knew a cure existed.” John’s lips curled in a weak smile. “He didn’t count on you hating him more than being six inches high.”

“It’s close.” Sherlock sat up.

“I’m not surprised.” John slipped into the car and set Sherlock on the dash. “He thinks you’ll be stuck in the flat with me playing nursemaid, both of us blind to his plans. So, let him think that he’s fooled us. And when we catch him, it’ll be all the sweeter for the look of surprise on his bloody face.”

Interest peeked in Sherlock’s brain. It certainly wouldn’t be boring. “I see. It’s…it’s a very good plan, John.”

John grinned. “So. Back to the flat?”

“Yes, he’ll be expecting that. We’ll have to wait a few days to venture out until he lets his guard down, but I can get some things done at home.” Sherlock’s eyes gleamed. “I wonder what sort of places I could get into without being noticed…”

0o0o0o0o0

Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of The Pocket John Adventure (formerly Pocket John Drabbles). However, I think The Pocket Sherlock Adventure will follow, sooner or later. I hate to leave him six inches tall, but my muse can be a fickle bitch. Hopefully this is less of a cliffhanger than the end of the second series for all of my wonderful readers.   
> And, if you really want to know if he gets back to normal, I’ll tell you something:  
> So do I. Cheers!


End file.
